


Breathing in the Deep End

by PUNK_MENACE



Category: Constantine (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Caretaking, Childhood Trauma, Coughing, Exhaustion, Fever, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, If You Squint - Freeform, Implied poly relationship, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lots of it, Multi, Pneumonia, Post-Canon, Sickfic, Whump, Workaholic John Constantine, but - Freeform, he's grumpy, it's brief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23470855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PUNK_MENACE/pseuds/PUNK_MENACE
Summary: "Waking up today is different. Markedly worse, actually. John is lying on his stomach, one arm trapped under him and thoroughly asleep. Slowly, he sits up. He starts to yawn but feels a massive itch deep in his chest, forcing him into a coughing fit."John gets pneumonia. He's the type of person to just hunker down and 'let it pass'. Chas and Angela are the type of people to nearly knock his door down to tell him how stupid that is.
Relationships: John Constantine & Angela Dodson & Chas Kramer
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39





	Breathing in the Deep End

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sick lately with some sort of cough (a very wet cough, so...probably not the Plague). So, I'm taking it out on John. Enjoy :)

Every morning, John wakes up feeling exhausted. His body ached, his scarred lungs protest, and the remains of his nightmares stick to his mind for hours. It was worse when he had cancer, much worse. But even without his body destroying itself, the sheer effort it takes to exorcise demons is enough to leave him burned out. Physically, he gets a workout every time he holds a demon down. On top of that, demons put off a powerful aura of despair. John won’t pretend it doesn’t affect him. Admittedly, he’s not as susceptible to it due to his vision. It also helps that he’s an ornery bastard on the best of days; his natural personality keeps him from a bigger fallout. Even so, exorcising demons take a huge amount of energy and concentration.

Waking up today is different. Markedly worse, actually. John is lying on his stomach, one arm trapped under him and thoroughly asleep. Slowly, he sits up. He starts to yawn but feels a massive itch deep in his chest, forcing him into a coughing fit.

John doubles over, gripping the sweat-damp sheets with both fists. As he coughs, he feels phlegm dislodge from somewhere in his chest. The itch ebbs. Now that he can breathe better, he realizes how hot his face feels and how cold the rest of his body is. 

His mouth doesn’t taste like blood. This doesn’t seem like when he had cancer, but John isn’t willing to leave his diagnosis up to his own interpretation. He needs to visit Dr.Archer before looking for demons to deport. To be honest, he wouldn’t be surprised if Lucifer somehow managed to stick a couple of tumors back in John. Maybe he did it last night.

The idea of Lucifer coming into his apartment just to give him cancer again is laughable. The ruler of hell has better things to do than target him specifically. 

A meer cough won’t stop him from going about his business. It didn’t when he was going to die, and it especially won’t now that he’s healthy. _Healthier_ , he thinks. _Not quite up to par._ John’s occupation isn’t exactly inclined to allow him to die in his old age. It doesn’t provide him with healthcare, either. He wonders if his vision would technically be counted as a pre-existing condition and chuckles to himself. It turns into a grunt, then a cough.

That’s enough lying around for today.

* * *

Father Hennessy is gone, so John has to go out and find cases through Midnite’s club. He hates going in there, hates the intermingling of creatures that would kill him in a heartbeat if not for Midnite’s strict rules. The only thing keeping him from finding cases by himself - a long process to say the least - is the apparent soft spot Papa has for him after having saved the world from Mammon’s wrath. It must be Papa’s inclination for balance and the fact that John seems to be one of the very few people capable of keeping the scales intact. 

Papa Midnite doesn’t provide him with information. John would never ask him to do so. It would be a waste of time for both of them. Instead, Midnite allows people in need to come to his nightclub. Normal people naturally avoid the club, skirting around the entrance without knowledge of the influence on their subconscious. At John’s request, Midnite shifted the wards so that civilians with an undisturbed mind would continue to stay away from the building but those that are affected by or vulnerable to the supernatural will be capable of approaching. 

John folds his coat tighter around his body. The day started off dreary and has only gotten worse. Rain drizzles down around him, plastering his hair to his hot forehead. His whole body has broken out in a sweat. He’s been fluctuating between feeling too hot and too cold with no rhyme or reason. Along with the thick haze of his fever, John can barely breathe without needing to cough, and once he’s done hacking up a lung, every breath ends with a lingering wheeze. The fever is enough to nearly knock him on his ass, but now the rain is sucking the heat from his body in earnest and his chest is tired. 

Finally, John reaches Papa’s club. He plants his feet and slumps against the wall, leaning most of his weight on it. He craves a cigarette. There’s just something about having two tumors yanked from his lungs by Lucifer’s crude, barbaric hands that makes him hesitate. He remembers the pain starkly, for it was unique in its magnitude. Fingers twisting and scraping. Flesh warping. Lucifer’s presence inside his body. John shivers particularly hard and thinks, _I’ve learned my lesson_. Besides, he doesn’t even have a pack of cigarettes, and they wouldn’t survive in the rain.

The door to the club opens halfway. Papa Midnite leans out and looks him up and down. 

“You’re sick.”

“Am I? Didn’t...,” John stops to cough. “Didn’t notice.”

“Go home, Constantine.”

Scoffing, John turns and plants his back against the wall again. “Can’t take a sick day, Midnite. You know that.”

“I do not. I never agreed to such things.” Midnite steps out into the downpour. He opens up an umbrella. Its frame and shaft are made of bones and the covering seems to be some thick, gleaming animal hide. The handle is a glossy, dark wood. “You’re a freelancer. You have no real employer. Do not blame your inability to sit back on the universe at large. Go home, rest. You are not as young as you like to think.”

John shakes his head. “I came here for a job,” he chokes out, “Not so you can call me old.”

“Precisely. You come to me for help. I will not enable you today, though. Go home. No wandering soul will pass by here for another three days.” Johns glares at him, questioning. “If you refuse to be sensible, I will provide you a reason to stay home. This is me giving you three days off.”

John takes a deep breath, or at least attempt to, and ends up doubling over from a coughing fit. Midnite pats him on the shoulder twice. Then he pulls away, strolling back into the nightclub.

He has no choice but to go back home and hunker down until he’s strong enough to get back to work. It’s not so bad, he supposes. It would be hard to exorcise a demon when he’s this weak. He doesn’t like being static, doesn’t like staying home when he knows what’s out there. More than that, he loathes being in a hospital, so John picks the lesser of two evils and staggers to the road to call for a cab.

* * *

It’s two days later that John drifts out of a heavy daze. His face burns from fever. His eyes feel hot, his head throbs, and his whole body feels utterly wrung out. The last two days have consisted of John coughing all throughout the day, sweating buckets, sometimes rolling over to the other side of his bed and occasionally getting up to relieve himself. He drinks water whenever he can make it to the kitchen. Aside from that, his diet has subsisted on toast and his activities have been limited to sleeping fitfully or staring at the ceiling. Constant discomfort keeps him from sleeping through the night but large chunks of his day continue to be swallowed up by blissful darkness. John has kept the blinds closed and the deadbolt on the door, not that many people bother him anyways.

Except for today. Today, he wakes up to a steady and obnoxious banging on his door. Someone calls his name.

“John!”

It’s Chas.

“Open up, John!”

There’s Angela.

“...Christ,” he growls. His voice is beyond rough. He can barely make it through one word without needing to cough. John closes his eyes, refusing to believe that those two are actually going to bother him at this hour.

Actually, he has no idea what time it is. Peeling open his eyes, John turns his head to reads the clock. 

**4:35**

He turns his head again. Sunlight is filtering through the tiny gaps in his blinds. They aren’t completely out of their minds, he admits. John hasn’t been answering any of their calls, so it makes sense that they would come to investigate. No one else in his line of work would worry so much but Chas and Angela are different. They’re soft.

John sighs and rolls over again. He lets gravity pulls his legs off the bed. For a moment, he sways there, weakly holding onto his sheets so as to not keel over. Then, breathes in through his nose slowly until the itch in his chest builds to be unbearable. He coughs hard, expelling a satisfying amount of phlegm into a napkin. After two days, John’s figured out some tricks to be able to function.

With that out of the way, he drags himself to his feet and lurches to the bathroom, ignoring their knocking. He relieves himself, washes his hands and face, and pops some more fever medication. John shuffles out into his living room with the bottle in his fist.

“Quiet!” John barks to the best of his ability. The knocking ceases. He gives a short sigh and braces himself against the wall. John undoes the locks and swings the door open.

“Oh, wow,” Chas bursts out. “You look…”

“Like shit,” Angela finishes gleefully. “There you are.”

John rolls his eyes, refuses to lets into his urge to smile, and grunts. He pivots on the wall and pushes off. “Whadya want?” 

“We’re here to check on you, make sure you’re alive, and this is how you show us gratitude, John?” Chas shakes his head mournfully, striding into the apartment all the same.

“Don’t let it get to you, Chas. Look at him.” He feels them both stare at his back as he makes his way back to his bed slowly. “Pitiful. It’s not his fault he’s grouchier than usual.”

John collapses onto the bed and looks over in time to see Chas nod in agreement. He rolls over to stare at the other wall, keeping his back to them again. If they want to traipse around his apartment, they’re free to do so as long as they don’t bother him. John closes his eyes, already drifting back into that half-sleep state when he feels a light touch on his shoulder.

“John,” Angela says softly, “Are you just taking some Tylenol? You know you should be doing something this cough. You could’ve called us.”

He’s about to tell her there’s no big deal, that he can take care of himself, but his lungs pick the perfect time to scream at him. He coughs violently, body jerking as he scrambles to clear his airway. Angela and Chas pull him up gently so he’s sitting against a couple of pillows. Eventually, he lies back, spent. He’s getting quite tired of that.

Chas hands him a glass of water wordlessly. 

John scrubs a hand over his face, feebly debating himself on the pros and cons of telling the truth. There’s no way to rationalize lying to them. Throughout the Mammon ordeal, Chas and Angela proved themselves to be his allies. 

“It’s pneumonia. Called my doctor, told her my symptoms, and she heard me coughing.” John sips his water. “I can take care of myself.”

Angela cocks her head as if to look at him from a different angle. Her eyebrows furrow in apparent worry and disbelief. “No, John. No. You need antibiotics, you need a doctor, you need to be in a hospital so you don’t suffocate in your sleep!”

He slumps deeper into the pillows, face hardening. Even John knows when he’s all angles. Rough around the edges. “I’m fine. I’ve been keeping my fever down, drinking water. No need to go to the hospital.”

“I disagree and I’m pretty sure every doctor in the world would, too.”

“I don’t give a shit what a doctor thinks.” He pauses to cough so that he can breathe. “You can’t force me to check in to a hospital. Leave it alone.”

Angela slips off the bed, placing her hands on her hips. “What the hell is your problem? Why are you so scared of hospitals?”

John forces out a round of sharp coughs. He all but throws the empty glass on the bedside table, uncaring of where it ends up. “Well, my memories of receiving electroshock therapy aren’t exactly _warm_ ,” he snarls, “And hospitals are goddamn deathtraps. I’d be completely exposed in a building of souls transitioning from one plane to the next. Do you understand how powerful that hotspot of traffic would be, attracting all sorts of creatures?” John slams a hand down on the mattress, panting and coughing with every other exhale, gripping the sheets. “No, of fucking course you don’t, because I’m the one who’s had to deal with this crap for years. I refuse to go to a hospital because I don’t feel like being around hundreds of vulnerable souls who are incredibly easy pickings for demons to possess!” Chas and Angela stare at him, too shocked at his outburst to offer help. John continues, despite his chest screaming at him to slow down. “Because those demons are coming after me, John Constantine, because I bait them. That’s why I tell them my full name, Chas, not just to sound badass. I do it so innocent people aren’t attacked. So, _yes_ , Angela, I won’t go to a hospital because I know I’ll get torn to fucking shreds!”

Finally, his body has had enough. John curls forward and starting coughing and hacking furiously. His chest burns and the force of it has his throat burning fiercely. He squeezes his eyes shut, tears flowing down his cheeks, gasping desperately in between his desperate attempts to purge his body of phlegm. No air seems to be making it into his lungs - at least, not enough. Soon his head starts to ache even more intensely. His whole body is taut and covered in sweat. Through the pain and mounting panic, John barely registers that someone is rubbing his back and, once his arms give out, propping him up against their chest.

Finally, minutes later, John sucks in a long, thin breath. His muscles go limp all at once. It felt like hours had passed. He blinks the dark spots out of his vision and weakly rubs his sore abdomen. 

Chas is sitting behind him on the bed, leaning against the pillows so that John can sit up straight against him. At this point, John couldn’t care less how weak he might seem. He lets his head loll against Chas’s shoulder. He even lets Angela cup the back of his head to help him drink more water. All pretense is gone. They’d just witnessed him nearly pass out, so it’s not like a little more vulnerability would kill him.

“Please, John. Let us take you to the hospital.” Angela strokes his cheek with her thumb.

“I know it just sounds like a platitude, but you can trust us,” Chas murmurs. “We have your back. You know I’m not an amateur. We can keep you safe.”

John continues to catch his breath. Fatigue is starting to set in, so he elects to keep his eyes closed. After a moment, he nods slowly. “Okay,” he breathes. “Fine.” His voice is barely there, now. Just a whisper. Thin as a sheet of tissue paper.

He doesn’t open his eyes, so he can’t see the relief on their faces, but he feels Chas exhale slowly. Angela runs a hand through his damp hair.

“Alright. Let’s get packing, then. We’re going to need supplies if we’re going to keep you safe while the antibiotics run their course.” 

Quietly, she and Chas do their best to pack a duffle bag full of whatever is needed. They get about three-fourths of it right and the last quarter is fulfilled by asking John quick, concise questions. Chas really was learning as much as he possibly could. John almost smiles thinking about how well he chose his apprentice, happy that he didn’t waste any time or energy on him. Later, he’ll apologize for yelling at them but immediately undermine it by pointing out how deadly hospitals are, even the one they’re in. 

Angela bundles him up in a thick coat and scarf while Chas runs down to get the car warm. The two of them walk down the stairs, arm in arm. The sun had gone down in the time it took John to chew them out and for them to pack the duffle bag. Spring is coming and in the meantime, the sun is still setting fairly early and this whole week will bring rain.

John huffs softly, shifting around so he’s more comfortable in the backseat. He leans his forehead against the window and notes that the pit of dread in his stomach would be a lot worse if not for Angela and Chas’s quiet banter. He thinks they’ll be able to get through John’s hospital stay alive, perhaps even without getting maimed. John ponders that for a second and wonders if he’s going soft, trusting these people with his life. He can practically hear Midnite’s voice in his mind.

_I would not call that getting soft, John. In fact, I believe that is what most people call having friends._

**Author's Note:**

> I've got a writing blog on [Tumblr](https://james-writes-occasionally.tumblr.com/) where you can request a story from me or chat with me about whatever!


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